


Mysterious

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ori makes a plea to the Elf King for the release of his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mysterious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MocaJava](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MocaJava/gifts).



> A/N: Fic for anon’s “When a male Dwarf is aroused, his anus lubricates like a woman's vagina. DoYC does not know that this does not happen for non Dwarves and his partner does not know that Dwarves do that.” request on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=24659061#t24659061).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s his choice to leave, but as usual, his brothers disagree. They clamour for him not to go, and once the guards have come to fetch him from his cell, they shout all the louder. He pauses when he’s past the bars, looking back at his still captive family, and gives them a faint smile. There’s no use trying to explain again. Nori spits towards one of the guards, who steps easily back and out of the way, and Dori slams so hard against his cage that the metal seems to tremble. But it still stands, and Ori’s guards still sweep him off, up the winding stone road and out of their cavernous dungeon.

Once they’re up into the rest of the great Elven halls, Ori can see just how truly beautiful this place is, even if he does understand the danger beneath. He doesn’t believe elves are half so evil as the other dwarves say, but he does know he must be careful. Still, he thinks it worth the chance. Of all their party, he’s the quietest, maybe the calmest, perhaps the most contemplative, now that little Bilbo’s gone and Balin’s busy trying to counsel Thorin. Ori respects his leader’s choice, of course, but he doesn’t think it fair to the other eleven dwarves—or Thorin himself, even—if they’re to spend their lives rotting inside an Elven prison for lack of proper discussion. Besides, they don’t have that long to waste. Erebor is waiting for them, and every dwarf must do what he can to _try_.

So Ori will speak to the king of the elves, be polite, diplomatic, obliging, and try to smooth this all out. They are, after all, no threat to the elves. Surely they can reach an understanding. The Elf King has already made the first step by agreeing to meet with Ori on the promise of talk, and that gives Ori hope. He thinks, at least, it’s worth the chance. 

He fully expects to be taken before the Elf King’s throne, made to kneel first. He has no frame of reference for the halls they weave through, each as lovely as the last, so he has no better idea of where they’re taking him. One guard walks before him, the other behind, both several heads taller than him with their long, straight hair wafting with each step. Ori feels awkward shuffling between them, hurrying to keep up on his stouter legs, but he still takes the time when he can to ogle his surroundings: the intricate carvings in the stone and the high, gnarled wood, somehow both natural and sculpted at once. Starlight shimmers down from strategic windows in the ceiling, slanting here and there to light their way through the night. He’s surprised they didn’t wait until the morning, but then, Ori knows too little of elves. Perhaps their business is nocturnal.

Eventually, they come to a wide, circular room that seems to be all carved out of the same wood, like the innards of a great tree. The ceiling is high above and made of interwoven branches, with emerald drapes drawn aside to let in the light of the moon. Ori stares up at it as the guards issue him inside, and one of them tells him, “Wait here.”

Ori looks back to say he’ll comply, but the guards are already leaving, shutting the grand double doors behind them, engraved with the same sweeping detail as everything else. It leaves Ori all alone in the strange setting. It isn’t at all like the throne room he expected. It looks like more of a bedroom than anything. There’s a large, four-poster bed in the middle with mahogany posts and rich silver sheets, a wardrobe tucked against one wall and a desk at the other, and a mirror hanging above it that reaches just over Ori’s head. It’s a stunning bedroom, whoever it belongs to it, but it’s a strange place to talk.

For dwarves, he supposes. Elves must have a different sense of what’s appropriate, and Ori tries not to be too troubled by it, even though the uncertainty does make him nervous. For a long while, he stands in the middle of the room, trying to look impressive and straighten out the speech in his head, when really, he just wants to shrink into a corner. He isn’t really worthy of facing a king, and he isn’t nearly so brave, but, he tells himself again, he must _try_.

After awhile, he grows too hot—the air is pleasant, but he’s used to being trapped outside in the open air, and his cloak becomes too much. He unwinds it from his shoulders and folds it in his arms, only to decide a few moments later that there’s no use staying on his feet. The only place to sit is the bed, and though it still doesn’t seem quite _right_ , it’s all there is. So Ori sits gingerly at the side of the bed with his folded cloak beside him, his hands clasped in his lap and his feet kicking idly to pass the time. 

Not long after that, the doors creak with their opening, and Ori gets immediately to his feet, straightening up. He’s barely done so before an elf slips into the room, turning to shut the door behind himself, and then looking back to sweep piercing silver eyes over Ori’s timid body. 

Ori experiences the unsettling urge to drop to his knees and bow properly. Even if this elf is no king of his, the Elf King stands with such regal grace, towers so tall above Ori and is so very _beautiful_. His long, white-gold hair cascades so smoothly down his shoulders, his handsome face long and captivating, his slim figure nothing Ori thought he would ever want, and now he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone more gorgeous. Even without the delicate crown resting around the back of his head and the fine, flowing robes, this man would have the air of royalty, and Ori practically bends in two with his bow, squeaking an undignified, “My lord.” He doesn’t know when to straighten up again, so he stays bent over, looking at the floor. 

The only reason he ever rises is because a soft hand slithers below his chin. Somehow, the king’s moved silently across the room, and now his lithe fingers twist their way beneath Ori’s jaw, lifting his face gently and bidding him to rise. Ori feels clumsy as he pulls back to stand again, having to crane his neck to peer up at the elegance before him. With his face telling nothing, the king says, “I would not expect a dwarf to address me with such a title.” His voice is something akin to a caress, and Ori shivers and shifts his feet, feeling, again, _unworthy._

He dips his head in submission and explains, “I would not know what else to call you, my lord, for I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting another king.”

This time, when he lifts his head, he finds a faint smile on the elf’s lips. He hopes it’s one of amusement and not wry disbelief. The king sounds genuine when he offers, “You may call me Thranduil, if you wish.” Perhaps at Ori’s confused expression, he explains, “It is my name.”

Ori ducks his head in a nod, waiting for more, but it doesn’t come. So Ori repeats, “Thranduil,” even as he feels his cheeks heat. It doesn’t seem right to call a king by name, even if he does with Thorin, and he wonders if he should, or if, perhaps, he’s being deliberately antagonized: set up for failure from the start. He nervously licks his lips once before he catches himself and stops, saying, “I am Ori. Of... the Blue Mountains.” Which isn’t really of any importance, but at least gives him something to say.

The king, Thranduil, nods his head once, a slower, far smoother action than the quick one Ori gave. Then he gestures back towards the bed, and Ori glances at it, ready to apologize, but Thranduil simply says, “You may sit.” So Ori, taking it as an order, does. The mattress is a bit high for him, and he’s more self conscious about hiking himself up under Thranduil’s gaze, but he obeys, keeping his legs still this time as they dangle over the edge and returning his hands to his lap. Thranduil continues, “I have been informed that you wish to speak with me on behalf of your party. I can only assume you wish for your collective release.” Thranduil pauses before adding, with his eyes sliding aside, “I have also been told that this did not appear to be at Thorin Oakenshield’s bidding.”

That’s an uncomfortable subject, and Ori has to admit quietly, “No, it’s... it’s not.” Then, worried that he’ll lose the king’s interest, he rushes to say, “I might not really have the authority to speak for my kin, but... surely there is still something that can be done. There must be a way to reach some understanding...”

“And what do you have to bargain with?” Thranduil muses, eyes slipping calmly back to Ori, who fidgets with the sinking, early feeling of failure.

“I... I have nothing. I’d hoped if I could just explain that we meant no harm...” Thranduil lifts one dark eyebrow, and Ori has to wonder if Thorin lead Thranduil to believe otherwise. Apologizing for Thorin might be a good start, but loyalty holds Ori’s tongue.

“Do you plan to divulge the details of your quest to me?”

Ori can’t do that, either. He is the scribe, and he knows the nuances as well as anyone, the look of the maps they’ll travel and the places they plan to stop, the deadlines they have and the plans for after... but: “I’m sorry, that’s not mine to say.” Thranduil doesn’t look pleased, but he also doesn’t look surprised.

He’s still polite when he says, “I’m afraid there is nothing else you can say that will outweigh your leader’s actions.”

“But... maybe...” Ori looks down, fidgeting, finds nothing and looks up again into Thranduil’s gorgeous face, trying hopelessly, “Is there something I can _do_?”

A deep frown creases Thranduil’s lips, and his chin tilts up, causing a few strands of his hair to slip back over his shoulders. More than ever, his pale skin catches in the moonlight, and Ori finds his breath catching in his throat. He’s heard the twisted tales dwarves tell of the magic of the elves, enticing spells meant to trap the victims into servitude, but Ori thinks now they must just be confused with the enrapturing beauty. In this moment, there’s very little he wouldn’t do for Thranduil, short, of course, of betraying his true king. 

When Thranduil does move, it’s only to drift towards the edge of the bed. He takes a careful seat next to Ori, still so much taller and imposing, despite being smaller, really, in width and bulk. He sits so close that their legs are almost brushing, and Ori clamps his knees together in embarrassment. 

Thranduil’s hand slips below his face again, fingers curling to cup his chin, and he’s drawn to face Thranduil. A few silent minutes pass where Thranduil simply examines him, and Ori feels hot and tries not to squirm. He’s never been this close to anyone so handsome before, and Thranduil’s fingers are tantalizing soft against his rougher skin. When Thranduil’s thumb brushes through the cleft of his small beard, Ori tries and fails to repress a shiver.

“I suppose,” Thranduil sighs, voice low and close, “You aren’t bad looking. ...For a dwarf.” A jilting shock runs down Ori’s spine, twisting around his nerves and making his skin flush with excitement and embarrassment—he would’ve thought himself beyond ugly to an elf of such standing. But Thranduil is watching him in appraisal, and a lazy smiles comes over Thranduil’s taut mouth. “I did not expect one of Thorin Oakenshield’s own company to come to me like this and call me _king_.”

Somehow, Ori winds up mumbling, “But you _are_ a king.”

Thranduil laughs. The noise is deep, like a chuckle, thrilling and warm, and it makes Ori almost sick with delight—to think he should be able to pull such a wonderful sound from such a wondrous man. He feels distinctly unworthy again, but Thranduil merely asks, “And you would submit to me...?”

Ori nods without thinking, his face still in Thranduil’s hand, and he insists, “Yes.” And not just to get his friends out, but he doesn’t say that.

Thranduil’s thumb strokes across his chin, and Thranduil’s head tilts, silver eyes tracing the angles of Ori’s face. When he asks again, it’s a husky, entrancing purr: “You submit yourself to me?”

Ori breathes, “Yes.” There is no hesitation. 

Grinning broadly, Thranduil withdraws his hand and orders, “Remove your clothes.”

Ori’s hand automatically reaches for his belt, though he’s shocked. His body wars between being frozen and obeying, and obedience wins out: he unclasps his belt and pulls it from his hips. He should be ashamed, he knows, blustering with nervousness, but all of that’s been blanketed out by muted hunger and the continued sense of feeling honoured. His own actions make his mind conjure imaginings of Thranduil stripping bare, and it’s a heady thought, something he doesn’t think he can in any way rival. But he was told to, and he does so, parting his jacket as he pushes off the bed. Standing before Thranduil, he removes his heavy coat. He doesn’t know what to do with it, but he doesn’t want to dawdle, so the fabric winds up in a pile on the floor. His fingers tug at his gloves, fumbling as he tries to imagine what will come next—Thranduil can’t possibly want him like _that_ ; perhaps Thranduil is just curious, and wants to see the body of a dwarf. When the gloves are gone, Thranduil nods downwards, and Ori clumsily climbs out of his boots. 

He stands in his tunic and trousers, not knowing quite what to do next, except that Thranduil reaches out with one long arm and starts to lift the material over his stomach. 

Ori does the rest, too afraid to let his fingers touch Thranduil’s. He strips his tunic over his head, leaving his bare chest to shiver in the open air, his hands following Thranduil’s down to the hem of his trousers. He’s self-conscious of how pudgy and patchy and messy he must look to an elf, with his uneven skin and spots of smattered stubble and the stoutness of everything, compared to the tall, thin, smooth lines of an elf. And it’s been too long since he had a proper bath. But he’s agreed to bow to this king, and he can’t stop now, so he does as he’s bid and pushes down his pants, pausing to catch his underwear when Thranduil drawls, “Those too.” Blushing hotly, Ori pushes everything down at once and straightens, rigid and nervous but shuddering in anticipation. He doesn’t want to look down, because he knows what the curve of his belly and his bulky feet look like. He can feel his cock, already semi-hard from the sight of Thranduil alone, half risen in the air. If he could will it down, he would, but he’s far too interested in mind and body to manage, so he only looks away and hopes Thranduil isn’t so disgusted as he should be. 

Thranduil rises off the bed again. His arms reach behind his back, hands clasping, and his eyes run right from Ori’s feet to the top of his hair. Then Thranduil takes a step, then another, strolling slowly around Ori, while Ori stands stock-still, trying not to tremble. When behind Ori, Thranduil muses, “It has been a long since I took anyone but an elf. I had been meaning to try a dwarf, but they’re rare in this part of the world, and I hadn’t yet found one not completely infuriating.” Ori chooses to take that as a compliment. He must pass inspection, because he can feel Thranduil drawing closer to him, even though he doesn’t dare look around, and then warm breath ghosts over his ear, and Thranduil purrs, “If you wish to be that dwarf, lie on the bed.” 

In this moment, Ori wishes to be nothing else. He reaches for the bed, climbing up and nearly slipping in his hurry. He doesn’t know quite how to sit, or if he should sit at all, and when he doesn’t get instructions, he simply stays as he climbed on: kneeling on all fours. Then he thinks, no, he’s supposed to be offering himself. So he lowers onto his stomach and lifts his rear up into the air, embarrassed but nonetheless aroused. 

Thranduil chuckles. Ori keeps his face buried in his hands and waits. He can hear Thranduil taking a step closer, and soft fingers land on the back of his thigh, lightly petting his skin. “I admire your eagerness, but we aren’t quite there yet. I will need to fetch the appropriate lubrication, as I’m quite well endowed.”

The thought alone makes Ori’s cock twitch against the bed, though he’s sure he’d find Thranduil gorgeous no matter what the proportions. But the rest confuses him, and he looks over his shoulder to mumble, “Lubrication?”

Thranduil’s face, fixed first on the curve of Ori’s ass, comes to meet Ori’s gaze and frowns. “Surely dwarves are not so barbaric as to go dry.”

“No,” Ori mutters, lost and shifting awkwardly while he waits. He opens his mouth to elaborate, but doesn’t understand enough to know what to say. Of course, he knows it would hurt if he were dry, but then it would hurt for more than just the dryness, and dwarves, as a people, highly value consent. Even if Ori came with the motive, and still hopes, to free his company, he still _wants_ Thranduil, very badly. He was moist when he was standing, but now that he’s lying on the plush sheets, he can feel his body stirring, his channel wetting itself, stretching internally to prepare. He already feels empty, and he angles his ass higher again, hips lightly leaving the mattress, trying to show just how ready he is. 

Thranduil only asks, quieter, “Is this your first time?”

It takes Ori a second to admit, “No.” But he hasn’t had anyone for a long while, and no one like _Thranduil_. Even if he’d ever met anyone else so glorious, he wouldn’t have thought he stood a chance. He insists, “My lord, I... I’m quite willing.”

Thranduil’s eyebrows lift in tandem, and he says simply, “We would do nothing if you were not.”

“No, I... I’m wet for you.” At the confusion that sinks onto Thranduil’s face, Ori mumbles, “I think I’m wetter than I’ve ever been, actually...” and then he has to turn his face, hiding it in the sheets. It’s true, he’s sure of it, but still... the only downside to this is that Ori knows it can’t last; it’s a one-chance thing, and he’ll probably go the rest of his life without ever wanting anyone this badly again. 

The bed indents, Thranduil’s clothed knees brushing to either side of him, and then Thranduil’s weight settles down across his legs. A part of him is disappointed—he wanted desperately to see Thranduil naked, but of course, he shouldn’t have expected that privilege. Thranduil stays there, simply staring at him, and it’s a very strange sensation that should make him wilt, but instead, only makes him harder. His hips press once into the bed, rubbing to try and bring some pressure, but that only makes Ori want to hump the mattress like an animal. He doesn’t want to look so uncontrolled in front of Thranduil, so he restrains himself.

Then Thranduil’s hands are on him, palms ghosting down the cheeks of his ass, fingers raking through his round flesh, and he _gasps_ , pushing back into the touch. Thranduil comes to the hump where Ori’s ass meets his thighs, and two strong thumbs press into his cleft, spreading his cheeks open. He can feel his hole twitching wildly as it’s exposed, blinking to let more of his juices trickle out, drizzling down between his legs to soak the back of his balls. He can only hope that he won’t stain Thranduil’s lavish sheets in the process. 

Because Thranduil is so quiet, Ori’s compelled to look back over his shoulder, just to make sure nothing’s gone wrong. For some reason, he finds surprise on Thranduil’s face, which quickly gives way to a more ravenous expression.

“Elves do not do this,” he says slowly, and there’s a small tremor in his voice, like it wants to be a _growl_. “Our bodies don’t facilitate such things. I had no idea that dwarves...” But he doesn’t finish, merely shakes his head. Ori’s just as surprised to learn that elves don’t, which seems such a shame. They must use separate lubrication then, which explains why Thranduil would’ve gone to collect some, though Ori’s glad they don’t have to wait for that. In a way, it gives him relief that at least he can offer _something_ to Thranduil that his usual consort can’t. 

Under Ori’s bashful looks, Thranduil reaches down to his stomach, parting his long, luxurious robes. The angle isn’t good enough for Ori to see much, but he doesn’t want to roll over without being told. So he simply tries to crane his neck to see as much of Thranduil’s pale cock as he can, as it’s freed from Thranduil’s grand clothes. He doesn’t even bother to remove his crown, just straddles Ori in all his regal glory, with Ori lying bare before him. Somehow, the contrast only adds to Ori’s excitement, though, of course, he’d also love to have them both in nothing.

Then all his daydreams whisk away under the pleasures of reality. The spongy tip of Thranduil’s cock presses against the puckered muscles of his hole. Ori sucks in a breath, tries to relax, and then Thranduil’s pushing in and Ori buries his face the sheets again, whimpering as his body swallows up Thranduil’s girth. It doesn’t feel that much different than a dwarf’s, though it’s more smooth than ridged. He can feel it pulsing, warm and alive, and it’s all he can do not to clench around it and beg to be filled all at once.

Thranduil goes slowly. There is no pain at all, even though Thranduil is very thick and very long. Ori is dripping in eagerness, and he can feel it still drizzling out around the edges of Thranduil’s dick, slipping down his cheeks and wetting the sheets below. But the best of all is when Thranduil’s silken hair slithers over Ori’s shoulders, and Thranduil comes to hover just above him, hands bracketing his sides. Thranduil’s chin brushes over his neck, and Thranduil’s soft lips press against his cheek: a gentle, marvelous kiss that makes Ori moan in pleasure. Thranduil purrs against him, “You’re very tight, dwarf. ...But you are wet for me. How _delightful._ ” On the last word, he rocks his hips deeply into Ori, and Ori can feel the king’s balls resting against the bottom of his cheeks, cock fully sheathed inside. It fills him more than even the toys Ori’s stolen from Nori, and this is better, more forgiving, hot and arched and rubbing against his walls in just that perfect way to make him writhe and moan. Ori’s a mess already, swamped in the bliss of being fucked by a living work of art.

Thranduil kisses his cheek again, this time lingering with a hint of teeth, just above the left corner of his beard, and Ori whines, voice cracking in the air. Thranduil slides his cock almost all the way out, which leaves Ori’s poor channel clenching after the loss. But then Thranduil’s thrusting swiftly back in, and he drops over Ori’s body to blanket Ori completely, pin him down and fill him back up to the brim. Ori whimpers, and Thranduil withdraws for another thrust, this one at a different angle that hits the perfect spot, and Ori cries out loud enough to echo all the way back to the dungeons. Thranduil quickly jabs it again before working into a steady rhythm of in and out, all slamming into that same spot. Thranduil moves with him however Ori contorts himself, squirming beneath his king and trying to arch back into it and moaning wildly. It feels so, _so_ good, more than he remembers, better than anything, and he wouldn’t have even dared daydream of the Elf King before, but now here he is in that very king’s bed, being fucked right out of his mind. 

Thranduil is as merciless as the legends say. For all his ethereal air, he makes love with a wild ferocity, claiming Ori again and again. Perhaps this is a fervor he holds back from his own consorts, a roughness only to be unleashed on a lowly dwarf unworthy of benevolence. Ori doesn’t mind a bit. Most dwarves fuck hard and fast, but there’s still more grace to this, a current of exquisiteness to the way Thranduil takes him. He’s sure there can’t be anything better, and then one of Thranduil’s arms slithers under his stomach, drifting down his belly to cup his cock, and the other hand twists below to stroke at Ori’s beard. That almost overloads Ori’s mind: too much pleasure at once. He tires to buck his hips back onto Thranduil’s cock and his own shaft down into Thranduil’s hand at the same time, while elegant fingers weave into his beard and comb through his hair. He almost feels like he’s being pet like a horse, but he doesn’t care—he _loves_ it, and of course he can’t resist Thranduil playing with his beard, just as little as he can resist his cock being squeezed in Thranduil’s hand. He’s pumped and stroked, dry but for his own sweat, and every thrust of Thranduil’s cock brings him right to the edge, almost ready to pass out. He pants loudly and whines and moans and screams every time he takes another thrust. He’s a complete mess, and Thranduil simply keeps kissing the side of his face and playing his body like a well-tuned instrument, drowning him in bliss. 

It blows Ori’s mind that he lasts as long as he does. When he can’t take it anymore, he’s screaming at the top of his lungs. The pleasure overtakes him, making his head reel and his entire body freeze up, boiling over, right before he totters right off the cliff and spills in Thranduil’s hand, humping Thranduil’s fist wildly and shoving himself back onto Thranduil’s cock with every go. He thinks he might be drooling out the side of his mouth but can’t tell with how dizzy he is; the world’s spinning about him. Yet Thranduil keeps slamming into him the entire way through, milking out his pleasure. It makes it difficult for him to come down, and even after he’s spent himself, his cock doesn’t flag as much as it should. He realizes belatedly that his fingers are fisted tightly in the sheets, knuckles white, and he lets go and tries to let himself be limp. 

Thranduil fucks him all the harder, murmuring sensuously into his ear, “I’m going to ride you to my own end.” Ori tries to nod but finds himself too weak, so simply lies there while the king uses his spent body. His hole is still full of lube and properly stretched, well-used. Thranduil’s one hand shifts to pet his stomach instead of his cock, and the other one stays twisted in his beard, stroking through. Ori just dizzily lies there and takes it. 

It seems to go on forever. It makes him sore in several places, but mostly it just feels good, a lingering tingling and constant little bursts of pleasure. After a while, his cock twitches and seems to fill again, though he has no energy to do anything about it. He knew how long-lived elves are, of course, and maybe he should’ve figured out how long elves would have sex for, but there was never any need—he never thought an elf would bed him. And yet, here he lies, below their king, milked out and used. It’s all pleasant, going from amazing to contenting to delicious again, and under the thick stench of sex and the flushed slapping sounds, Ori works back into grinding his hips against the bed. The feel of Thranduil’s hair draped over him is almost as enticing as Thranduil’s cock itself, and when Ori’s sure he’ll soon pass out anyway, he dares to slide one hand down, letting his thicker fingers lightly catch on the ends of Thranduil’s golden mane. When Thranduil doesn’t stop him, he dares to play with the soft strands, strangely enthralled. 

He comes again without any warning, suddenly bursting against the bed all on his own, and his hips spasm to keep up, while his cock splatters flecks of his seed into the existing pool. He ruts helplessly into it while Thranduil keeps taking him, and then Thranduil bites hard into his ear, and Ori _screams_ , arching back into Thranduil’s clothed body as his channel’s suddenly filled with seed. He can feel it bursting inside him, mixing with his own juices and sloshing down, while Thranduil continues to pump into him, only pausing here and there to grind in hard. Ori’s filled with wave after wave of Elven seed, warm and sticky, until Thranduil stills atop him, still crushing him down. 

After a moment of heavy breathing, mostly on Ori’s part, Thranduil slowly withdraws his cock. The head still spills a few jets down the back of Ori’s thighs, but Ori’s a mess anyway and doesn’t mind. His hole stays gaping open, leaking fluids and twitching lightly. He feels exhausted and utterly blissful, limp and satiated and satisfied to his core. He can only whimper when Thranduil sits up again, the weight and comfort leaving his back. Thranduil’s hand returns to pet the back of Ori’s hair, and the king sighs pleasantly, “I believe that’s one of the fastest times I’ve ever finished.” Ori thinks he should be flattered but is too spent to say so. 

He lies there, unable to move. After a moment, Thranduil enters into his vision, lying down next to him, though the Elf King is on his back, his crown sinking slightly into the sheets. His long arm reaches down, his fingers absently caressing the sore cheeks of Ori’s ass, and if Ori could, he’d lift back into the touch. 

Instead, he’s still while Thranduil touches him, until Thranduil sighs, sounding thoughtful, “Perhaps we should... _discuss_... things further, before you are returned and your company is freed.”

For one quick moment, Ori feels horrible, having forgotten all about his friends in the midst of such ecstasy. But then the happiness returns, and he can’t help but smile so wide his face hurts. “You’re going to free them? Really?”

Thranduil stretches and turns onto his side, elbow bending so his chin can rest in his palm. “In a while,” he answers, smooth as silk, but Ori understands. Perhaps Thorin will still have to swallow his pride and apologize for his outburst, but at least the king is willing to listen and won’t keep them here forever.

Although... being kept might not be so horrible. Ori feels traitorous for thinking it but can’t help himself; Thranduil is still so very beautiful and treated him so very well. Even now, Thranduil is appraising him with obvious approval. 

Then Thranduil bends forward to press a chaste kiss to Ori’s forehead, and he murmurs, “You will need your rest. I must return to my throne, but we will speak of this more when you’ve recovered.” Ori nods as Thranduil pulls away, then watches as he pushes off the bed, tucks himself back in, and stands as grand as ever, looking like none of this ever happened. 

Ori has the proof it did, and Thranduil gives him a calm smile. “You may rest in my bed, if you like.”

Ori would, so he just nods. 

As Thranduil sweeps out of his chambers, robe flicking up behind him, Ori tiredly crawls up to the pillows, weaseling his way beneath the blankets. Perhaps, he thinks, when all is said and done and Erebor is reclaimed, he could return. Erebor is not so very far from Mirkwood, and though Ori knows he could never be an Elf King’s One, he could, perhaps, still have small snatches of happiness. Apparently, Thranduil is open to seeing more of him. 

Hopefully next time, he’ll see more of Thranduil, too. 

It’s with a large smile and a pleasant feeling that Ori slips into dreams, waiting for his new lover to return.


End file.
